


The boy from Ishgard

by Tumskunde



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:14:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tumskunde/pseuds/Tumskunde
Summary: A friend once asked the Warrior of Light about his family and why he decided to stand up for others.





	The boy from Ishgard

What they saw in the boy is anyone's guess. A nameless orphan in a frontier town, half starved and nearly feral. The priests barely saw the boy, so to the knights. He scavenged what he could, stole what he had to. In fact he had stolen from them just before he was caught, picked the purse right off the little one's belt, heavy it was, a dull clinks of coin.

But caught he was, not far from where the first warm food he had eaten in days had been bought. The tall one had lifted him clear off the ground, with a look both hard and soft. Taken him to the magistrate they had, to be handed to the priests and knights thereafter.

Afore that the pair bade clemency for him, for he was alone, and why was that? Many questions, the boy could not answer what there no answer for. A mother? A father? A home? A name? He knew many things, but not those. He knew of hunger and want, fear and violence, cold nights and harsh day. He was left with the priests, and though the tall one's eyes never left his, the short one watched the rest, brows furrowing as saw something he did not care for. Maybe it was himself, the was the thought forefront in the boy's mind, not looking at the priests and the knights surrounding him.

The priests washed him, gave him new rags to replace the old, new bruises too. They took his knife, the smooth stones he had collected from the river and the medal always with him, a gift from a dying man. They were leery of his red, the hair, the eyes, not so much the blood though, they brought forth enough of that with the beatings. No good they muttered, tainted he must be. He was fed even worse slop than what was scavenge from the bins. Cold and rancid. His body ached from the beatings and the cold, no blanket or fire here to keep him warm.

The second, the third, the days there after little changed, until it did. A door left ajar that was always firmly shut. Freedom sought and found? He took some food from the kitchen, even after he ate his fill, tossed it all in a sack, a blade from the kitchen in hand. He found a way out through a cellar window and fled into the night, giddy to be free, not wary of what was abound, what prowled behind. He found a roost in an old shelter, behind an unused charcoal kiln in the abandoned woodlot, slept warm and free.

He woke in terror, a priest was there, hand on his mouth, screams barely heard. A knight stood behind, maybe two? He had been lifted, pinned to the wall, a blade of heat held up to his face. Fire where there was none before. Hot, blazingly so, the blade brought to his eye, pulled back to strike. The knight screamed, and the fiery blade was pulled from sight. The knight's leg was missing below the knee, two more forms lay still on the ground beyond, in armor and coats alike, though battered and torn as their wearers. Then an axe protruded from the knight’s face, the small one was there, eyes ablaze with furious intent. The priest shouted, dropped the boy and brought his blade of fire bear, then he stopped and rose off the floor. The tall one had her arms around his throat, she pulled and pulled until a crunch and a pop. The priest fell limp, boneless to the floor.

She knelt, brought her face level with the boy’s. He drew back from them, started to curl inward, eyes flicking between the two. The short one was dragging the bodies to the side of the oven and shoving them in, one, two, more than that still. Soft words then, soft light followed, the aches he had felt for days faded. More questions, still no answers. Tall one knew this would happen? She had told short one he should have just let be. Short one said the boy was seen, would have been hunted either way. Better to try the path of the lightman afore taking the darkman’s way. The boy though the short one speaks oddly, though the tall one seems to understand him well enough. She is still not happy, even so, the boy could tell she is not unhappy with him, nor with the short one really.

Gentle as she spoke, some prayer? They lit the oven, another priest and two more knights had joined the other four, the oven sizzled and popped before they threw a red stone in and shut it tight. Even shut he could feel the fire rage, the heat climbing to be unbearable. They were leaving, had business elsewhere? The boy knew they were not from here, they were too different, in form, in speech, in kindness. They stopped when he did not follow, questions and words abound. The boy thought hard, they offered him food and a place to stay, work as needed, a home? They had a ship, he had seen those sail across the bay, they rarely stopped here.

For the boy, there was nothing here but hunger and pain, the choice had been made even before the offer was finished. They kept to the shadows, avoided the guards at the gate and trekked out into the night. The tall and short one led him down to the Riversmeet, through the canyon stopping on a spit of land at Greytail Falls. The tall one raised a hand and a ball of light shot out over the water, they turned to him then. They were Kryslona and Damantos, the boy? He never had a name, was it a problem? He needed one. The short one, no Damantos, looked up at Kryslona and spoke. He was like her brother? The boy looked down at his hand, yes, the knife was still there, clutched in his hand. He had planned to use it to escape the priest had he been given a chance. He tucked the knife away, what did that matter now?

They told him the name. He rolled it around his mouth and mind, it felt odd, but not bad. A muffled shout from across the water and a small boat worked itself towards them. The s... Damantos, he said the actual ship was much bigger, that this was a smaller boat they used to get to and from shore. The hyur in charge swore and grumbled as they pulled the skiff up on the shore, trading heated words with the pair, he was hoping they would have waited until morning, when the weather was better. The man finally noticed him and swore again. How many?

Two priests, five knights, ones that hunted the smallfolk. Another loud bout of swearing, grumbling about not being able to return and lost profits. Damantos chided him, they were not caught and dealt with it without an issue. Kryslona dryly asked him if they could do aught else? More grumbles and then a quick set of orders and they boarded the skiff. As he drew near the hyur asked what he was called, finding a seat he looked to the pair that saved him with a small smile. Mulling for a moment as the boat pulled away from the shore I replied, "Donaghy."

**Author's Note:**

> Been batting this about for a while. Perspective shift is intentional.  
> A note on naming, Kryslona's brother was a Sea Wolf, and his name Blanwaek (Dark Battle) followed their naming conventions.  
> Giving one to an elezen could prove to be an issue, so they gave him the elezen equivalent, which I converted using french/celtic conventions.


End file.
